Shadows Of Poverty

Chapter 3: Shadows of Poverty

Poverty is a silent thief. It doesn't announce its presence with a loud crash or a dramatic entrance. Instead, it creeps in slowly, quietly settling into the corners of your life, stealing the things you need most—comfort, security, and sometimes, even hope. It was in these quiet moments that poverty first made itself known to me.

Growing up in Ogbabo Centra, I never really understood what poverty meant until it was a constant companion in our household. As a child, I didn't have the vocabulary to describe the feeling of waking up each morning with a knot in my stomach, wondering whether there would be enough food to eat, or if my parents would have enough money to buy the basics we needed. I didn't know that the bare walls of our house, the empty spaces where furniture might have been, were all silent reminders of the struggles we faced.

My father worked tirelessly, farming the land in the scorching heat, planting yams, cassava, and maize, hoping for a good harvest. But despite his best efforts, the yield was often small, not enough to sustain us for the long months between planting and harvesting. There were many nights when we ate only a handful of boiled yams, or worse, none at all. I remember my mother's eyes, often searching the pantry for something more, even when it was clear there was nothing left.

My parents did what they could. My mother was an expert at making a little stretch into enough, turning scraps into meals and clothing into something presentable. She would mend our tattered clothes, patching them up with such skill that even we didn't realize how worn they truly were. I admired her for it, the way she always found a way to keep us going, to make us feel as though everything was normal, even when it wasn't.

But no matter how hard they worked, the gap between what we needed and what we had seemed insurmountable. There were days when the sun set and we hadn't eaten, and we went to bed with aching stomachs, wondering if the next day would bring better luck.

As a child, the pangs of hunger were something I had to get used to. The taste of hunger became so familiar that I could no longer distinguish it from the rest of my life. It was just another feeling, something we lived with, just as we lived with the heat of the day or the cold of the night. I grew used to the feeling of stretching out my hand in search of food, hoping that someone, somewhere, might have something to spare. The villagers were kind, and whenever someone had a little extra, it was shared. But there were times when we had nothing to offer in return, and that silence between us and the giver was deafening. It was a reminder of how little we had, and how much we needed.

In school, I learned to hide the signs of poverty. I wore the same shirt day after day, and although it was faded and frayed at the edges, I tried to wear it with pride. I carried my books in a torn bag, and though it was embarrassing, I never let on. The other children could be cruel, often making fun of me for my ragged clothes and unpolished shoes. But there were moments, fleeting moments, when I felt like I could hold my head high, like I could stand apart from the poverty that clung to me.

Despite the difficulties, I didn't feel sorry for myself, not at first. I was a child, and children have a remarkable ability to adapt. To me, it wasn't the lack of material things that stood out, but the presence of love. My parents, though poor, loved us with a fierce, unwavering devotion. They worked endlessly to provide for us, even if that meant sacrificing their own comfort. They never complained, never asked for pity. And in the face of all this hardship, there was always laughter in our home. My siblings and I would find joy in the simplest things, in playing together in the dirt, in running through the fields, in listening to the stories our parents told us.

But as I grew older, I began to see the full weight of our situation. I began to understand that the kindness of others wasn't always enough to fill the emptiness we felt. I began to notice the looks of pity that we sometimes received from the wealthier families in the village, and I hated them. There was nothing worse than the feeling of being looked down upon, of being seen as less than. The shame that came with poverty was suffocating.

The realization that my future might be limited by my circumstances began to settle in. I began to ask myself difficult questions: How would I ever escape this life? What would happen to me if I stayed in this village, bound by the same chains of poverty that had held my parents and grandparents?

At the same time, something inside me began to shift. I could feel it stirring, this quiet determination, this growing desire to change my life. It wasn't enough to simply survive—I wanted to thrive. I didn't want my children to grow up in the same poverty that had shaped my childhood. I wanted something more for myself, for my family, and for my community. I wanted to break free from the cycle of hardship that seemed to define our existence.

But I also learned that poverty wasn't just about the lack of money or material things—it was about the mindset it created. It made you feel small, invisible, and sometimes, it made you believe that you weren't worth more than what you had. I saw it in the way my father sometimes lowered his gaze when asked for help, as if his own worth had been tied to what he could offer. I saw it in the way my mother would silently accept her exhaustion, never allowing herself the luxury of rest, as though she was unworthy of it.

And I knew that if I was to escape this life, I would have to fight against more than just the physical limitations of poverty—I would have to fight against the way it shaped the way I saw myself and the world around me.

The shadow of poverty loomed over every part of my childhood, shaping my perspective on life in ways that I didn't fully understand at the time. But looking back, I see how it carved a path for me, how it instilled in me a fierce desire to rise above, to fight for a better future. Poverty may have been the backdrop of my early life, but it was also the catalyst for change, the force that propelled me forward, urging me to push beyond the limitations that had once defined my world.

Through the hardship, I learned resilience. I learned that no matter how deep the shadows of poverty might be, they could not extinguish the light within me. And with that light, I would fight, not just for myself, but for everyone who lived in the shadows with me.